Chairs for baby derrieres.

Some years ago when I was working for a family publication, I attended a police training session. The attendees were me and a bunch of traffic cops. As my magazine dealt with topics germane to young families, I was there to learn about the proper installation of child car seats -- and my fellow students were there to learn what to look for when examining the same. 

If you've had a kid in the last thirty years, you know that car seats for children, especially babies, are of grave importance. They always were, I guess, but if they were even around when I was a baby it was not something most people bothered to have. My earliest memory of being in the car was sitting on my mother's lap in the front seat as Dad drove us across a bridge -- possibly the GWB from New Jersey, but I'm not sure. All I remember was that my mom held me tight and that bridge was the BIGGEST THING I had seen in MY WHOLE LIFE -- all three years of it or thereabouts.

The reason I am thinking of my Crazy Car Seat Class is that, while cleaning out the office in preparation for moving, I found the notebook I used that day! Why I still had it I don't know; it got put in a trunk and forgotten after I filed my report. But it brought back memories of the day -- and the doodles I made during the more boring parts.

"Why is this kid upside down?"

We started with a busy classroom discussion on the types of baby seats, why parents shouldn't get a used seat (may have been in an accident), seats for kids with special needs, and basic physics (weight x speed = restraining force, so a 10-pound kid at 60 mph needs 650 pounds of restraining force) (which is more force than an adult holding the kid can generally muster). 

We also saw a video entitled "Don't Risk Your Child's Life" (an ongoing series) that, while not on the level of the cinematic classic "Red Asphalt," was an eyeopener nonetheless.

The next day we went outside to practice fitting seats in cars and discover how easy it is to do it wrong. My car was one of the ones used -- appropriately, a car that would perish five years later in a hydroplaning incident (no children were with me at the time). 

On our final day, the police, with us students in tow, held an actual session with the public. The police had arranged to have a free child seat check in the parking lot of a shopping center nearby. While I had not qualified as a Certified Car Seat Safety Technician, I was allowed to help and observe. Using my secret code (that is, my illegible handwriting) I took notes on each of the checks I watched:

Child 1: 11 months, 22 lbs.

Should have been in a rear-facing seat

The seat he was in was loose (straps holding the seat are too loose if you can pinch the webbing together)

The retainer clip was too high

The harness was also too loose 

Child 2: 6 months, 20 lbs.

Convertible seat should have been rear-facing but was forward-facing

Belt not used properly

Child 3: 2 years, 30 lbs.

Funny-lookin' kid

Harness too loose

Locking clip used incorrectly

Child 4: 1 year, weight not recorded

Seat and harness too loose

Clip too low

Latch used without the top tether

Child 5: 4 years, 45 lbs.

Booster seat but in the front; should have been in the back seat; kids that age cannot handle airbag deployment

Shoulder belt improperly threaded

And on like that. Every vehicle I saw had something wrong, and it's not like these seats don't come with instructions. Confusing instructions, I imagine. Mostly the problem was that the straps holding the seats were too loose. The LATCH system (Lower Anchors and Tethers for Children) was coming into use then but was not universal. 

Ultimately I was not asked to write the story for the magazine of My Adventures in Child Seat Safety, but I did become the Child Seat Answer Man for a while when the topic came up. And I learned to warn people to follow the installation directions carefully, and if they're concerned, to talk to a local police department to see if anyone there is a certified car seat technician. 

No matter what anyone reading this thinks of the police, know that cops never want to see people grievously wounded or killed in traffic accidents, and they NEVER EVER EVER want to see children get hurt or worse. 

Even if you have great confidence in your driving skill and your situational awareness, we all know that the roads are full of morons, dope fiends, drunks, the befuddled, the overtired, and the thrill-seekers, and we all need to protect ourselves and our loved ones with good safety practices. 

Thanks for reading, and happy and incident-free motoring to you! 

Always check references.

 

Comedy and shame.

So what does this 1984 film have to do with our current moment?

Eh, I don't know. 

No, seriously, hold on. First, I want to say that I have never seen any of the Police Academy movies, which is strange because when I was a teenager it was exactly the kind of movie that I would have been coerced into seeing, most certainly on video, on some random summer day when none of my friends had any better ideas. But somehow I dodged that bullet. Not to pick on the movie -- some actors and comics I respect were in it -- but I had always heard it was about a lowbrow as you could get. 

Here I am, writing about it all the same. What happened was, I was reading through some cinema history and found out -- which I don't think I knew -- that Alan Ladd's son, Alan Ladd Jr., was a movie producer. He produced Police Academy. Then he won an Oscar as a producer on Braveheart. He also produced The Brady Bunch Movie. Cinema is the weirdest business on earth.

That made me curious enough about the original Police Academy to go to Wikipedia and the entry on the movie. I also discovered that in 2016, Bill Clinton copped to loving the series, saying of his marriage: 

“We rarely disagreed on parenting, although she did believe that I had gone a little over the top when I took a couple days off with Chelsea to watch all six Police Academy movies back-to-back.”

I don't know how I missed this quote in 2016, but it might have gone over my head because I hadn't seen the movies. I just figured they were dumb fun. 

But it was Bill, so I should have known better. 

I knew full well that it was movie law in the early 1980s that every comedy had to have a hooker in it. So of course Bill Clinton would love those movies. In the first picture the Mandatory Hooker commits fellatio from inside a lectern on a man giving a speech before a large crowd. Twice.

And he watched this with his daughter? 

Picturing the heartfelt lesson there: "Remember, sweetheart, this is how a woman gets ahead. And the man she loves, too, come to think of it." 

Do you think those scenes were ever on Bill Clinton's mind when he was doing one of his heartfelt addresses to the American public? 

This was the man who turned the Oval Office into the Oral Office, let us not forget.

Which brings us to the present moment. 

First, I learned that the inspiration for the film came from an actual event in San Francisco, where a motley crew of academy cadets were trying and failing to secure a film site. Producer Paul Maslansky was told that the police academy had to accept all applicants, however ludicrous, and keep them until they quit or officially washed out. And that made me think of the current lawlessness in San Francisco and the desperation of our cities to get anyone to join the police force after so many experienced cops quit or retired during the Defund Police nonsense of recent memory. 

Also in San Francisco, although not as mayor until 1996, was Willie Brown, without whose help and guidance none of us would have ever heard the name Kamala Harris. And indeed, Ms. Harris seemed to take the role of Mandatory Hooker in this little comedy, using her wiles to advance her career as a prosecutor in the state of California. Ferocious ambition and courtesan skills are an odd but not unheard of combination. But even Willie thinks she's out of her depth. I say she's in so far over her head she'll need a bathysphere to speak at the convention next month. 

Anyway, there it is -- sex, politicians, hookers, poor parenting choices, bad police recruiting, and comedy. Many people have been saying that the 80's movie that we should be scared of seeing in real life is The Terminator, with all the AI stuff around. But it actually turned out to be Police Academy. 

Licence to veil.

James Bond's car in Goldfinger was the greatest. Machine guns in front, oil slick, smoke screen, bulletproof shield, tire-slashers, ejector seat -- every other Bond car after that one was just okay, even if it had silly things like an underwater mode, exploding theft prevention, remote control, or invisibility. That Aston Martin D85 was the gold standard.

One of its lesser features, but perhaps the one many of us would want in real life, was the automatic license plate changer. At the push of a button, the plates would change, the identity of the car thus obscured. "Hmm! I was chasing an exceptionally expensive silver sportscar down this country lane, but it had different plates than the one up ahead. I shall look elsewhere for the one I want." Okay, maybe it wasn't the greatest -- but if I'm driving a dull gray Honda and switch the plates, it might keep me from being caught by the law if my car has been tagged as belonging to an undesirable. 

So it's a clever device. This? I'm thinking not so smart. 

I was behind this Dodge with its blackout windows and, at a light, examined its blackout license plate cover. What the hell is this? In the old Hardy Boys days, crooks would just splash mud on the license plate to obscure it and provide plausible deniability if the cops noticed. (It was a trick used in almost every book.) But completely covering the plate?

Apparently in New York you can tint the hell out of the rear window as long as the side mirrors give the driver a clear view of what's behind him. And this guy's rear window looked like it had been painted black. But what about the plate?

Sure enough, smoke-tinted plate covers are a thing--easily found on Amazon and eBay--but there's got to be a catch, right? First of all, what legit reason would make you want to tint your license plate cover? Worried about the glare? It's supposed to have one; maybe other states are different, but in New York the plates are reflective to make them more legible at night. Afraid to damage your precious license plate? Are you kidding? If something hits you that hard, you're going to have much worse trouble than the condition of your plate. Want to preserve your beautiful plate from sun and weather damage? What, and then cover it up so no one can admire its beauty anyway?

Sure enough, the Q&A section of one Amazon seller notes that these covers are illegal to use except on the front vanity plate in a one-plate state (despite the fact that most of these covers are sold in two-packs). So this driver in front of me was totally breaking the law. Why? Probably to avoid paying tolls, as it turns out. He's not a mob hitman; he's just a damn cheapskate.

I have to suppose that this is a wink-wink situation, like all those years that bongs and hookahs were being sold at record shops for "tobacco use." But why wouldn't the police pull over someone for obvious misuse of an obscuring product?

I hate when the government is oppressive, and I hate being pulled over by cops, but were I a policeman, I would pull over any driver with one of these. There's a reason people put up with license plates on their vehicles, and that's because bad actors can cause a lot of harm in an automobile. Someone trying to mask his car is a bad actor or wants to look like one. That's not James Bond driving a Durango in front of me. 

And hell, the way our so-called intelligence community has been acting toward innocent US citizens while letting known wolves go about their business, if it was one of their agents, he ought to get a ticket just on general principles.

Deputy & dawg.

A couple of weeks ago the coast looked clear, so I unleased the hounds into the front yard. Little did I know that the incident would involve law enforcement and a firearm. 

It's been hot, and the hairy mutts can't get much exercise in the heat of the day, plus that's work time for the saps who pay the bills. So the trip to Peeville outside is a joyful event. 

I generally make sure there's no one around, because old dog Tralfaz runs out without a leash. The little dude Izzy gets a leash, but Fazzy knows better than to go in the street. 

However, Fazz does bark and then greet any pedestrians with wagging tail. Since he is so huge, though, people can get scared, and hear the barking but ignore the wagging tail. (The old joke has the owner saying, "Don't you know that barking dogs don't bite?" and the other guy saying, "I know that and you know that, but I don't think your dog knows that." Ha ha!)

What happened was a fellow in slacks, dress shirt, and necktie suddenly appeared around the neighbor's house, and Fazzy went galumphing up to him. "Is he friendly?" the man yelled. "Too friendly!" I answered. And Tralfaz got some pats and cheer, and was happy. Meanwhile, Izzy was dragging me as hard as he could to get in on it. 

It turned out the man was from the sheriff's office, and had a holstered gun on his belt to prove it. 

Having gotten some love, Fazzy went to find a nice quiet place to pee, but Izzy stayed with me. It turned out the sheriff had an application from one of the neighbors to become a corrections officer, and had some questions for people in the 'hood. I was glad to help out. It was basic character stuff, like did the guy and his family do anything shifty, were they considerate, things like that. Well, three years ago they had a graduation party that was too loud and too long, but I didn't bring that up. Ever since they've been ideal neighbors, unlike the families that live on either side of our place. 

While I was answering the questions, and the fellow was taking notes, I suddenly realized that Izzy was licking the man's holster, right at the business end of the gun. I casually yanked him away while trying to look like I wasn't pulling on an 80-pound dog. I didn't think the gun would go off, but I didn't want the man to be alarmed, thinking someone was going for his weapon. Knowing this puppy, the lick is often the father of the bite; if he thought the holster tasted good, it might have been chomp city, and the whole congenial discussion could have gone south in a hurry. 

Fortunately all was well, and the man left with my recommendation for the fellow up the block. If he wants to be a corrections officer, then God bless him. For me, it's all I can do to control the hairy little inmates at my place. 

Salute to the police.

Today is Peace Officers Memorial Day, a day established by the Fraternal Order of Police to commemorate those who have been killed in the line of duty. In this house, we salute them and we thank them for their work in an all-too-often deadly vocation.

Readers interested in the real perils and human costs police work in this stupid era of ACAB and black-clad fascist "antifascists" will find a lot to ponder in the book Shots Fired: The Misunderstandings, Misconceptions, and Myths about Police Shootings, by Joseph K. Loughlin (former assistant chief of police for the City of Portland, Maine) and true-crime author Kate Clark Flora. 

This book is not a wad of "copaganda"; it is a realistic, sometimes grim attempt to explain to the general audience what officers go through in deadly encounters. It also is a powerful and thorough answer to questions many of us have after shootings by police, such as why the police fire so many bullets in such encounters, why they didn't shoot to wound instead of kill, and the old Hollywood favorite, why they didn't shoot the gun out of the suspect's hand. (Which is fine if you're the Waco Kid; otherwise, oy.) 

The authors tell real officers' stories of all sorts of deadly events, as well as the aftermath on the perpetrators, victims, and the officers themselves. One chapter, "Sometimes They Won't Stop," is about the manhunt for the Boston Marathon bombers in 2013, and if you look up harrowing in the dictionary you might find that chapter. At the time of noted asshole Dzhokhar Anzorovich Tsarnaev's capture, all I knew was that the police had shut down a large section Watertown (which enraged a couple of conservative commentators) but they got Dzhokhar while his asshole brother went out in a blaze of glory. I had no idea just how involved and terrifying the situation was. 

The effects of encounters that end with the death of the suspect upon the officers themselves are long-lasting. In old cop shows a detective might blow a punk who has it coming away and go back to work like nothing happened, but that's not reality. Even if there weren't all kinds of negative, even dangerous, public reactions in the wake of such things, even if there weren't politicians quick to sell out their own cops, and even if a fatal shooting didn't guarantee being investigated up the wazoo, the officer involved can expect to get put through a wringer on several fronts by his own mind and by the department. When the authors tell me that the police at large are desperate to de-escalate and not draw a weapon, I believe it. 

Shots Fired came out in 2017, after the Ferguson riots of 2014 but before the Floyd riots of 2020. You can just imagine how many more chapters could be added in a new edition.

I found the book gripping on every page, so of course I recommend it. And I recommend thanking a police officer on this day, even if you get pulled over for speeding. Traffic encounters can be the most deadly to police of all, which is one reason why they can be deadly to drivers as well. Living in a well-ordered society means that some public employees work in a war zone. 

Pistachio line-up.

Pistachios used to be a rarity, at least when I was a tot. You could see them in bins by the deli counter, dyed red, sold by weight. They were delicious, and the dye turned your fingers and tongue red. But they were imported, pricey, and if your mom (meaning my mom) wanted to get a fancy nutty snack, she'd just get Planters Cocktail Peanuts instead. They were always popular, too. 

Since then pistachios have become a domestic crop, and quite the thing. The red dye, once used to hide stains and make the nut more appealing, is gone, letting the natural green of the roasted pistachio shine through. National campaigns for the pistachio have risen the nut's profile and sales. In 2018, pistachios were the third most profitable crop California's highly agricultural Kern County, with sales of more than $1 billion. They dropped a peg to #4 in 2019, but that's still pretty amazing for a nut that used to have to dye itself red to get attention. 

We usually keep some around if the need for a salty snack hits; nuts are high in protein, and thus more satisfying than chips or pretzels. However, a sack of pistachios in the shell can be a challenge. Some of these nuts are friendly and easy; others seem to want to do everything the hard way. Here are some pistachios with whom I have become acquainted. 

Charlie's always got a lot to say,
but watch out -- not everything he says
is on the level.

Always with the snappy patter, this
creep. Acts like a hard case, but you can 
get him the open up with a little patience.

She's usually in the bag, and really easy,
but remember your duty.

You won't get anything out of him
unless you use the third degree. But this
nut will crack if you put on enough
pressure.

Sure, he's a kid, but that don't mean he's
innocent. See if some kindness will draw him
out of his shell. If not, tell him about
pistachio butter.

Not worth your time. This guy's got
nothing but a big mouth and an empty
head. Toss him out on the street.

If you see any of these pistachios on the loose (well, except for Nestor), feel free to capture them and eat them. Or you can send them here to HQ, where we will interrogate them, probably with a refreshing glass of iced tea or seltzer.

Of course, if you happen to see any pistachios that have been turned into gelato...

Do not attempt to apprehend. Report it to me and I shall be there swiftly with my spoon. 

The dog that did bark.

I was awakened at quarter to three by barking. It was my wife. 

Wait, I don't mean my wife was barking. I mean that there was a dog barking, and it was keeping my wife from sleeping. So, as any married man will tell you, when you have a problem, you have a problem; and when your wife has a problem, you have a problem.  

Outside a little dog had been barking for a couple of hours. Once my wife woke and heard it, she couldn't get back to sleep. It would bark for a while, maybe five minutes, stop, then start with a few tentative barks, and then a crescendo for a long period. Then silence -- and the process would begin again. I slept through that, but not through her. 

Let's face it -- my wife is sweet on the dogs. And, with her heart still in bandages from the loss of Nipper a couple of weeks ago, all she could think was that there was a suffering dog out there whose owner was too sleepy to let it in. 

Miscellaneous dog in peril, imagined by the Mrs.

So, Fred to the rescue. Let's face it -- I'm sweet on my wife. 

From outside I tried to determine where the dog was, and could tell immediately it was not the little pest up the block. It was actually from a house up the hill, the row whose backyards face our street, the street that can't be reached by road except by the side road. So I started walking. Herein the text exchange with my wife:

Me: It's not the pest. Up the hill
by the apartments.

She: Can the police go check? The poor
thing must be freezing.

Me: I will have a look

She: No, don't go up there!

Me: Why not? Could be on the street

She: No! It's probably in their yard!

Me: Then I will have an address for the popo

She: Honey, I really don't want you up
there in the middle of the night.

Me: The badlands of suburbia

She: You're trying to give me a heart attack
aren't you?

Me: You need sleep and you won't get it
if this poor pup is suffering

She: D'oh! No fair!

Me: brb

<a brief interval later>

She: Where are you?

Me: At the cul de sac. It's one of these houses
but I can't tell which. #37 looks like

She: Call police? You can't ring doorbells
in the middle of the night.

Me: On the way back

She: Okay. I can breathe.

Me: It is not very cold so the dog isn't in danger

She: It's 37 degrees and the dog's been
out for hours now. That's not safe.

Me: Okay. 2000 steps on Fitbit already!

She: Show off!

<I got back to our porch and called the police -- not via the 911 line but by the station's direct number.>

Me: Okay, they're sending somebody

She: Thank you so much love. You
saved its life.

Me: Or the owner having a heart attack
who's out cold.

She: Could be that too!

Me: Could be dead....drunk

So that was my brave expedition in the cold night air. I wasn't too worried walking around, even if a single male with a flashlight could look suspicious. Yeah, I'm white, okay? But I'm also middle-aged. I look askance at young men of any description walking along alone; most men who choose a life of crime are dead or in prison at my age. My wife was afraid someone would call the police on me, but that just would have saved me the trouble. "Glad you're here, officer! Check out house #37!"

Before I got back upstairs the barking had stopped, and didn't restart. Fortunately it is a quiet town at night and the police can take the time to respond to nuisance calls like mine. And with any luck, things will be quieter up the hill in the evenings going forward. 

Out of the clear, blue sky.

I'm glad my mother didn't live to see September 11, 2001. She would have suffered unbearably from anxiety. It might have killed her in a slower and more cruel way than the heart failure that took her a couple of years earlier.

I have a friend who was an EMT down there. He talks about going to Iraq later with the army, looking for a pound of flesh, killing an enemy, getting hurt by a suicide bomber, but he doesn't talk about September 11.

Another friend was a fireman uptown. He likes sharing bawdy stories about his days with the department, on trips to Vegas and other shenanigans, and will talk about his past job, finding dead children and pets in apartments gutted by fire sparked by crack pipes or stupidity. But he's never talked about September 11.

All I did that day was walk down from midtown to as close to the Financial District as the police would let me go, which at that point was Houston Street, so I could finally find my wife and get her out of Manhattan. We had no idea how we would do it, but we did it.

I think that's all I have to say about it, except -- all those Americans who promised they would never, ever forget? The 343 firemen and FD EMTs, the 23 officers of the NYPD, the 37 PATH and New Jersey police officers, and the nine others who ran in while everyone else was running out, and paid the ultimate price? America said it would never, ever forget.

It took less than 20 years.

Funeral in a small town.

I don't think of my town as being small. Sure, it was pretty small compared to New York City, from whence I hailed. And it was smaller when we moved here than it is now. But when our church hosted a funeral for a police officer killed in the line of duty, it seemed minuscule.

Thousands descended on the town. NYPD, EMS, NYFD. Politicians in entourage vans and helicopters. Police from other cities, other states. Family and friends of the deceased. Police motorcycle clubs. Military. Retired cops. Locals who wanted to show their love. Locals who were just curious. Everybody, everybody came to show their respects, and it shut the whole place down.

I'd never seen anything like it. The schools had to close. All businesses were either closed or inundated with out-of-towners. Streets were lined with little American flags. Every major road was closed off, and any side road of any size. The new pastor at the church where the thing was held was thrown into the deep end, but apparently carried off his duties with aplomb.

I only saw this because I had a mission that took me out of the house that morning, and I made the mistake of waiting too long to do it. Everywhere I drove I ran into roadblocks. I felt awful just being out, not like they were in my way, but like I was an inconvenience to the mourners. So I got home as fast as I could.

What brought all this to mind was the crowds. Now our town is sleepier than it has been since there was a farm in the middle of the main road, I think. With the sheltering-in-place rules, and general fear of COVID-19, things are pretty quiet. But I saw that picture above that I had taken a day or so after the funeral, and I remembered when we had quite the crowd, the biggest I had ever seen. God bless our officers.

House of mystery.

There used to be a fellow about my age who walked his big fluffy dog down the street from time to time. She was a sweet dog and I'm pretty sure my XXL dog Tralfaz was in love with her (even though he's been fixed, but boys will be boys), so I always had to make sure my dog was leashed when I saw them coming. Once in a blue moon his teenage daughter would walk the dog instead, but we never spoke.

I did speak with the guy on a few occasions. Or rather, he spoke with me. Very friendly, but one of these people who never stop talking, and I mean never. Stream of consciousness, almost. Never listened, never asked questions. Just rattled off whatever was on his mind, then wished me a good day and off he went. He never told me his name, or the name of dog, or what he did for a living, or any personal details at all. He never asked for mine, either. I only know what house he lived in because I saw him go in with the dog once.

One day he said they were thinking of moving back across the Hudson. Next thing I knew, they were gone. Poof.

The house looks completely empty, nothing on the porch, never any cars around, but there have never been any no for-sale signs. Realtor.com says the house is not for sale, and has not been for sale since it was built in 1998. I also can find no sign of anyone advertising to rent the property out.

I told my wife it could be an FBI safe house. or even more likely, run by the US Marshals for the witness protection program (actually the Witness Security Program). She thinks I'm nuts -- well, she thought that anyway. But it adds up.

We have this image from the entertainment media of people being hidden by the Marshals for years or even decades from the villains who would take horrible revenge on them. ("After we testified against the Verduras mob, our lives are worthless! If El Nabo finds us, it will be a fate worse than kale!") But Mental Floss tells us that the typical stay in the Witness Security Program is no more than six months. Not that they're shuffled back to the scene of the crime; the families are supposed to become self-supporting after half a year.

Well, if the family living here was unable to do that in this neighborhood, that would explain the vanishing act. About the time WITSEC (as the cops call it) told the guy, "You know, we're cutting you off at the end of the month," he would have realized they couldn't afford or just didn't want to stay here and it was time to bug out. So, he dropped hints that he was thinking about leaving, loaded up the suitcases, and left under cover of darkness with their overseer lighting the way. That's my theory.

Either that, or he just up and abandoned the house. But the house hasn't taken on signs of abandonment. Just emptiness. You know the difference. Like, someone is still cutting the grass. Like, someone is stopping in every once in a while to check the pipes and windows.

I'm leaning toward Witness Security. So the next time I see a new family magically appear, I will assume they have dirt on somebody dangerous.

Maybe I should study the faces of the people involved in the Jeffrey Epstein case. I hear he didn't hang himself....

Pull over!

The flashing lights behind you on the highway always make your heart pick up the pace, which seems to create abdominal pressure that causes your stomach to fall to your knees.

But this time I was sure, absolutely certain, I was not doing anything wrong. 

It had been a long afternoon. Among the events, on the other side of the county, and in another state, was a long session of grooming for large family-size dog Tralfaz. His freakout had begun before we even left home, but the power of cheese got him in the car (that being my wife's new SUV -- he won't get into my smaller vehicle) and he panted all the way to the groomer.

Now, hours later, both of us exhausted, the sun down, I drove along the highway toward home. I was maybe two miles over the speed limit, which in New York is considered going slow, but sudden stops are hell on Fazzy, who refuses to ever lie down in the backseat, so it pays to take it easy. And I was following (not too closely) a tractor trailer that was also going a pleasant speed. 

So why the hell was I being pulled over?

Bad Fred, bad Fred, whatcha gonna do?

I carefully drew out my wallet so I wouldn't go grabbing for it when he showed up and think I was going for my gun. My stomach sank a little more, knowing I did not have the registration on me, that it was at home in my wife's purse. I hoped desperately that Tralfaz would behave when the trooper showed up, and that I would remember how to operate the window switch.

And I kept wondering what I had done wrong.

You may have already guessed. I had been driving in the dark with the daytime running lights only, so I had no rear lights. The new car has automatic everything, unlike mine, so I assumed that the lights had gone on; this impression was supported by the fact that we were on a well-lit road and the daytime running lights on this car illuminate really well. I didn't have the lights on Auto; I had them on Off.

The trooper couldn't have been nicer. Didn't even ask to see my license (although I'm sure he ran the plate just in case). I apologized when he explained what happened, and he checked when I got the damn lights on to make sure they worked front and back. He wished us a happy new year and we parted ways.

Tralfaz never made a peep, bless him.

So that was my road adventure, and I'm glad it turned out okay, and didn't involve money and points on my license. But it did remind me to read the manual. These new cars do seem to do everything for you, but relying on this stuff tends to get me in trouble.

No doubt.

"I know this looks a little strange, officer, but I assure you there is a perfectly reasonable explanation."

They only brought out a few to make their point.

No doubt on their way to work at Clown, Inc.

They're out there.

Remember, my fellow Americans, that the holiday weekend still isn't over, and while you may not be a crazy person, there are crazy persons on the roads....

Get off your own lawn!

[Minor language warning below, but it's not my fault! Just reporting the facts.]

I turned into an old fogy this past weekend. It happened so fast it left me breathless. One day I was a (sort of) hip guy, (kind of) kickin' it with the youngsters, (maybe but not really) youthful in every aspect. The next, I was an old fart, wondering where the time went.

Here's what happened:

The town is full of graduation parties at the moment, and a family a few doors down was having theirs. I've seen a lot of house parties on this block, but none of them drew so many cars as this one -- there had to be thirty to forty cars parked up the street and around the corner at its height. They rented a tent and chairs, decorated with banners and balloons, and let loose the DJ.

Oooookay.

At first it was no big deal. You expect things like this to be loud. They were playing a lot of club music, which may have included a lot of swearing, but as much of it was not in English, I didn't know. When I was inside with the TV on, it wasn't so bad. Seemed pretty PG-13 to me. The fogyitis started to creep up, though, as I began to realize that most club music consists of a lot of screaming and songs that have a four-note progression repeated ad infinitum. All right, I never liked dance music much anyway, because I dance like a double-amputee rhinoceros, so I assumed that I was being picky and let it go at that.

As the sun went down, the music got louder, and the lyrics moved from PG-13 to R. Now, I am aware enough to know that "show ya titties!" is pretty tame for modern music, however many times it is shouted, but bear in mind that this is a neighborhood with lots of children under the age of ten, including at least one living in that house. By now it's nine o'clock. I'd had a busy Saturday that had started at five, and I was hoping to be in bed by ten.

At 9:30, the music was louder. People started shooting fireworks. I took junior dog Nipper out to pee at one point, and he was so startled and distracted that he couldn't focus enough to do so. It was like charging onto Normandy Beach and having to take a leak. (Fortunately he was able to go later.)

At about 10:30, I went up to try to go to sleep. My wife was staying up a bit watching the tube, and she recommended I use earplugs that I keep for situations like this (usually leaf blowers). In the second-floor bedroom, under the blankets, wearing earplugs, I could still hear the party going on.

And that's when I became a fogy.

I called the cops.

What else could I do? Walk alone into a party full of teenagers and act like Mean Mr. Wilson? I'd be lucky to find just a flaming sack of poop on the porch.

Funny thing about it: I thought the local ordinance said no loud party music after ten. I was informed that it actually says after nine. I can't tell you why none of my neighbors had called the police before then, or at least the dispatcher didn't tell me if they had, but I'll wager none of them wanted to be a buzzkill party-pooping killjoy, no matter how rude the party house was. Neither did I. But I also wanted me and the dogs to get some sleep. And it was making me angry that anyone would be so unconcerned with the feelings of the people they have to live near.

Within twenty minutes, the music shut off. It didn't go back on.

The next day a neighbor was complaining to me about the noise. I didn't ask why he didn't call the police. I didn't cop to it myself. Hey, maybe everyone was calling the police, who were shutting down parties all over town, and just needed my call to make it critical mass for them to visit our street. This is a town that has an eight o'clock curfew on trick-or-treating. We're not 24-hour party people.

So I hated to be That Guy, That Old Fogy, but you know what? To hell with it. When I was a kid, in the Paleolithic Era, parents would be humiliated for the police to be called on their house. They would have sent the DJ packing at nine on the dot. Now? People seem to be willing to get away with whatever they can.

Maybe your experiences in the Paleolithic Era were different, but bear in mind also that I grew up in New York City, a place not known for its kindness and consideration. And yet I would never have allowed that kind of noise to go on that late. Hell, one 120-decibel "show ya titties!" and the DJ and his equipment would be scattered all over the street.

If that makes me old, then pass the Metamucil and get off my lawn.

And how was your day?

Did you have a lousy Monday? I hope not. Mine was just okay. I was busier than a cramped-up blogger at a metaphor-writin' contest, but the Sisyphean tasks I'm on at the moment didn't show any significant progress. I wish I worked in Hollywood, where you don't have to work to get paid. In fact, they seem to pay you more.

But I shall complain no longer, for a story from 2017 was brought to my attention recently, about an officer in Minnesota who had a bad night on the beat. It seems that Brad Browning and another officer got into a scuffle with a knucklehead named Hietala who had outstanding warrants. Browning's fellow officer pulled out the ol' Taser, aimed... and shot Browning by mistake.

It got worse:

Hietala immediately fled, running through the neighborhood with Browning in pursuit. By the time Hietala hid between two garages in an alley, a Clay County sheriff’s deputy had arrived with a police dog. The dog was cut loose, but instead of biting Hietala, it bit Browning, the police report said.

It's not a good thing when your life turns into a Looney Tune. I wonder if they call him Brad E. Coyote now. Good thing for him that the Piano & Anvil Squad didn't show up to help with the collar.

My other new hero is Tsutomu Yamaguchi, an engineer for Mitsubishi. Perhaps you've heard of him. He accomplished an amazing feat -- by showing up for work twice.

The first time he was on a business trip, just about to leave the city and head home. It was August 6, 1945. He was in Hiroshima.

Yamaguchi was thrown through the air by the shock wave by the freaking atom bomb that fell on the city, and got burned and pretty roughed up, but all things considered, and compared to most of his countrymen in the city, he was in good shape. He spent the night in a shelter and managed to get to the train station the next day, having heard that some trains were running.

This guy, who'd just had the first atomic bomb used in war dropped on him, was going back to his home office to go to work. So remember that next time you call in with the sniffles.

Oh, and the home office? In Nagasaki.

Yes, Tsutomu Yamaguchi was the only human being confirmed by the Japanese government to have survived both atomic bombs dropped on Japan. Not only that, he lived to the age of 93. Hell, if two A-bombs can't stop you, you deserve to live a long time. I'm almost surprised anything could kill him.

So remind me of these guys the next time I complain about work. I'm on velvet here. No one seems to want to drop a nuke on me at the moment, nor sic the K-9s on me, nor friendly-fire a Taser at my behind.

But I'm watching out for the Piano & Anvil Squad. Don't trust those guys a bit.

Rotten luck.

Unfortunately for Craig's field sobriety test, he picked a bad time
to confuse "spread eagle" and "Chicken Dance."

Whoville PD.

We were working the graveyard when a call came in to the station. The jing-tingle of the phone startled Detective Joey Who, who almost dropped his cards on the floor -- and he had just pulled to an inside straight. I could tell by the way his whiskers twitched.

"Precinct," said Desk Sgt. Flinia Who. "What? Robbery? On Christmas Eve? Gotta be a mistake."

My ears pricked up. This sounded like trouble.

"No, no, Mr. Who, that's all right. I'm sure your daughter's not lying. Gimme the address and we'll get out there right now. Thanks." She jotted the information on a pad.

Joey and I got up, the game forgotten. At least for us; the other players, janitor Squeaky Cleen Who and town drunk Booey Who, took a look at our cards. The doctor on call, a guy named Who, would have done just as much, but he wasn't there that night. He disappears on us sometimes.

"What's the story, Flinia?" I asked, getting my coat.

"This guy says his daughter saw Santa Claus in her living room," she said.

"So?"

"Well, Santa gives her a drink and sends her to bed, right? So, of course, an hour later she has to use the euphemism. Then she sees that this so-called Santa has taken everything! All the presents, the tree, the food, everything."

"Not the Who Hash?"

"Everything to the last crumb. So she's upset and her father's having a fit. You better get over there, Harry."

"On the way. C'mon, Joey."

We headed out into the cold night. Whoville PD has a rep to uphold, for crack service.

By the time we got to East Who Street, the whole block was in an uproar, everyone milling around outside. This Who guy had been going around to his neighbors, and it turned out they'd had everything stolen, too.

"About time you got here!" he said. "I'm Townshend Who, and this is my daughter, Cindy-Lou. She saw the culprit."

"Okay if I talk with her?"

"Yes, go ahead."

I sent Joey around to check if anyone else'd seen the perp while I jawed with the kid. "All right, little girl, thank you for alerting your folks," I said, trying to sound calm. "So you met someone claiming to be Santa, right?"

"Uh-huh," she said. A perky little kid, not shy or anything. "I heard him stuffing the tree up our chimbley and I asked him why he was taking it. He said something about a light being broken. But then why did he take everything?"

"Good question. What did he look like? Red suit, beard?"

"No beard. He was green."

"Wait, he was wearing a green suit?"

"No, a red suit. He was green."

"Well, I'll be a-- Cindy, you've been a great help. Why don't you folks go inside and get warm? We're on the case."

"Do you know who did it already?" asked the dad.

"Not Who," I said. "More of a what."

I talked to a couple of other people, but Cindy-Lou was the only eyewitness. A peek in the windows confirmed their stories -- nothing left, no presents, no decorations, no yule log, nothing but hooks and some wire.

Joey's findings confirmed my suspicions.

"I looked around the snow," he said. "Reindeer tracks, you know? Found 'em, but with the snow falling looked like three or four hours ago. Sled tracks too."

"You're like a one-man Whoville CSI, you know that?"

"But there was second sled, more recent, and no reindeer tracks. You know what I seen instead?"

"Dog tracks."

"Yeah."

"The three words that best describe this case," I said, "are as follows, and I quote: stink, stank, stunk."

"Grinch," he said.

"Call it in," I said. "If he's hit all these houses, he might be working the whole town, trying to steal Christmas."

"We're probably too late," grumbled Joey. "Grinches are strong, fast, and sneaky. He's probably heading back up Mount Crumpit with the loot already. We'll never find him up there."

"You're right," I said, "but these kids are gonna be crushed when they see there's no floofloovers, no tartookas, no whohoopers or gardookas. What'll they do without trumtookas, slooslunkas, or blumbloopas? And the whowonkas! That's the hottest toy this year!"

"I know, I know," said Joey. "And what's Christmas without a game of zoozittacarzay?"

I shook my head. No Christmas was coming. And no breakfast. Everyone on the block said that the green jerk took all the food. This was gonna be a hungry town.

Then I got an idea.

"Hey, Joey," I said. "You still on the PBA choir?"

"Yeah."

"And you guys know the other singing groups in town, right?"

"Yeah... where you going with this?"

"Y'know," I said, "the problem with Grinches is their tiny little hearts. Sad, shriveled little things. But they're suckers for music."

Joey started to smile. "You're a good detective, Harry Who."

I smiled back. "Quick," I said, "before he dumps everything. Get everyone in the town square. We got some Fahoo Forays to sing!"

----

Author's Note: I haven't seen the new Grinch cartoon yet, or in fact the Ron Howard Grinch movie, and I have no idea if either features the detective work of the Whoville PD. If either movie used any of the above gags, rest assured they somehow stole my idea. That goes double for reader Mr. Philbin.

Stand and deliver?

What could be more all-American than a bunch of kids doing a lemonade stand?

The one down the street could have been straight out of the kind of Walmart commercial that would run in early May. Mixed ethnicity, mixed genders, wearing the kind of kid clothes one might find at Walmart, with a folding table and chairs and a jug of lemonade -- or in this case, fruit punch. One dollar, served in a stylish plastic cup.

What $1 buys you.

Of course we love to see kids doing things together, doing things outdoors, doing things that don't involve electronics, and not punching one another. We also love the entrepreneurial spirit in our youth, and they had that, flagging down passing cars like their house was on fire. So we love the lemonade (or other beverage) stand, and we hate when overzealous officers (and grumpy neighbors) shut them down for stupid reasons, like demanding a nine-year-old file for a permit.

Now, this punch was really watered down, as if they were trying to stretch the one Kool-Aid envelope they managed to wangle out of Dad, or if they just couldn't figure the directions on the 4C can, but that's okay. I'd rather have it weak than feel like my teeth were rotting just looking at the crystallized sugar.

All in all, though, I keep hoping to find a Lucy Van Pelt style psychology booth.

I could use some help. I think I may have pantophobia. And look! Five cents! What a bargain! I don't even care if my insurance won't cover it.